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There was something about the way that Aziraphale caught his eye as he extended the invitation. It made Crowley’s pulse race and his palms sweat. It was a nonsensical reaction, there was nothing about the sentence that warranted any reaction above a bored yawn and sarcastic eye-roll, and yet, he could hardly help noticing how the angel’s cheeks were flushed with anticipation when he said it. [1]

“Crowley, would you like to come over and, uh,” He paused, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips. “Do our taxes?

What kind of an invitation was that, anyway? Who even did their taxes these days?

Not Crowley, that was for sure. [2]

But saying no to Aziraphale was not something which Crowley was exactly in the habit of doing. No matter how much he delighted in doing exactly the opposite of whatever was generally required or expected of him, that instinctual urge to be a misbehaving little shit had never extended to Aziraphale. Kind of the opposite really, he’d even tried to before and the word had always stuck in his throat. So he stuttered a yes and a half-joking line about bringing the rubber.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in what was either consternation or genuine confusion. Crowley immediately winced. He’d gone too far, of course he had. Aziraphale wasn’t into that kind of thing, even as a joke.

“I can assure you, Crowley," He huffed, sounding positively offended at the very implication and yep, time to flee the country for the next decade in shame. "There will be no need for a rubber. I never make mistakes on my paperwork.”

Crowley opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He did this at least twice more before finally managing to form a response.

“Right, yes. Of course not. No, er, rubber then.” He was strangely disappointed and refused to look too closely at the feeling, lest it become something more.

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, “I work exclusively in ink. You should be offering to bring correction fluid.”

(Was this a sex thing? It sounded like a sex thing. Oh Satan, he hoped it was a sex thing...)

“Hnk-” Crowley said, eyes wide and definitely a touch more snakelike behind darkened shades.

It wouldn’t do to let his… erstwhile adversary here know how affected he was. Aziraphale probably didn’t even realize how he was saying any of this, it was just paperwork for Sat- Someone’s sake! No one even liked doing paperwork, and he’d heard Aziraphale explicitly bemoan the bureaucratic hoops an upstanding angel had to jump and do backflips through for something as simple as getting out of a beheading and into the best Crêperie in France for a lovely romantic dinner date, to give an entirely random example.

Aziraphale, of course, was still patiently waiting for Crowley to give him an actual coherent response, his brows arched questioningly as he gave him that look that suggested he was, perhaps, implying exactly what Crowley was inferring, and would he please catch up already, they didn’t have all day, and as for the night, he was definitely hoping to have it all. [3]

Crowley, who had in fact invented that thing where humans choke on their own spit, proceeded to make use of his own very fine invention. Aziraphale frowned, seemingly concerned, and leaned in to give him a hearty whack between the shoulder blades which only served to exacerbate Crowley’s coughing fit. By the time he recovered, his eyes were watering. (Plausible deniability.)

“I-- Yeah, angel. I’ll help you do your-- er, our taxes.” Using that particular personal pronoun just made it sound even dirtier. Crowley’s cheeks flushed, and it wasn’t the only part of his body suddenly suffused with extra blood flow.

Aziraphale positively beamed, so radiant Crowley squinted a little against the brilliance even from behind his sunglasses.

“Lovely. How’s this Thursday? Say, seven?”

Crowley could only nod mutely, both because he didn’t trust himself not to utterly cock this up, and because he was a bit lightheaded from just how quickly the blood in his corporeal form had rushed southward. Aziraphale, luckily, didn’t seem to mind and just smiled again and even leaned in to pat Crowley on the cheek.

“Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

Crowley’s form of ambulation could generally be described as sauntering on the best days, and today, while having abruptly become a very good day indeed, was… not one of those days. He fairly staggered out to his car, his body all flushed and tingly and completely forgetting what it was like to have limbs. It was a wonder he didn’t fall flat on his face or simply give up being human-shaped altogether. (Okay, not a wonder, there was a demonic miracle or two involved.)

But somehow, he made it out to the Bentley, wrenched the door open, and fairly collapsed into the driver’s seat, heart pounding.

Shit. Fuck fuck fuck bloody bollocksing hell.” Crowley was completely unprepared for being so blatantly confronted with the thing he’d wanted for so long. It was a good thing the Bentley had a bit of sentience after so many years of demonic ownership, because Crowley was an absolute mess and couldn’t spare even the cursory degree of attention he normally paid while careening through London at 60mph.

(Coincidentally, this greatly improved Crowley's driving style as well as general road-safety. [4])

On the appointed night, Crowley decided to forgo the suggested correction fluid and instead plumped for a reasonable merlot. It didn’t matter what he brought, Aziraphale would always produce some rare vintage from an impossible corner of the shop and insist on opening that instead. Bless it all, he even brought his own tax paperwork, printed off the HMRC website. Not that he intended to fill it in, mind, but appearances were important.

He found Aziraphale just as he’d expected; seated at his desk with those little wire-framed glasses perched on his nose and a forest's worth of paperwork before him.

“Crowley, you finally came!” Aziraphale smiled, and it was like staring into the surface of a tiny sun. [5]

Nobody should be this excited about taxes.

“We said seven, angel. It’s only three minutes past.” Crowley wrinkled his nose at the implied admonishment.

“Oh. So it is. I feel like I’ve been waiting an age for you.” Aziraphale gave himself a little shake, as if to dislodge a thought. (He also crossed his legs rather less than subtly, but Crowley failed entirely to pick up on that. He would normally have admonished himself for such an oversight, but his brain was barely functioning right now.) “You’re here now! And you brought wine, how sweet of you.”

A pair of wine glasses appeared on the coffee table behind Aziraphale. That was as close to an invitation to pour as Crowley was likely to get, and so he set about opening the bottle and filling them both up.

“That’s quite a bit you’re putting in your glass,” Aziraphale observed.

“Believe me, we’ll need it. Well, at least I will. Not sure how much you want.” Crowley started on the second glass, carefully filling it up halfway before Aziraphale told him to stop.

Aziraphale stood to take the glass from Crowley, stretching his shoulders out as if he’d been hunched over for hours already. Crowley watched, transfixed, as Aziraphale took a sip of the wine and chased the drops that wet his bottom lip. If it was a sin to watch that tongue, Crowley could only be glad that he was already damned. The things that he craved to know about how that tongue felt, how it tasted, how it might squirm as Crowley sucked it into his own mouth. A hot flush painted his cheeks.

The glass was placed neatly upon a coaster, and Aziraphale set himself to the task of getting ready for serious business. Crowley watched in barely veiled lust as Aziraphale shrugged off his jacket and loosened his bowtie. When he unbuttoned his collar and spread it, revealing that creamy hollow at the base of his throat, Crowley nearly inhaled a mouthful of wine and earned himself a solid smack on the back from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s hand was warm even through his jacket. Crowley tried to stop himself from imagining how that hand would feel on his chest, on his thigh, on his cock, strong and firm and soft and utterly in control.

(He, obviously, failed and proceeded to choke on air, much to Aziraphale’s concern.)

Despite the fact that he’d asked Crowley for help with the taxes, Aziraphale seemed content enough to do most of the work himself while Crowley watched and lusted. He was utterly mesmerised, transfixed on every movement as Aziraphale leaned forward to recharge the cartridge in his pen from the ink pot on the stand at the far edge of the desk, unable to stop his eyes from sliding over the angel’s form as he raised himself slightly from the chair to better reach his target.

This must be torture, Crowley thought to himself as he watched the end of the pen slip past Aziraphale’s pink lips while the angel furrowed his brow in concentration. He’s trying to discorporate me.

(Crowley had the brief, terrifying thought that Aziraphale had merely pretended to be his friend all these years, biding his time until an opportunity like this rolled around and he could assassinate him with barely any fuss.

Which was obviously ridiculous.


Surely Aziraphale didn’t realize... surely he had no intentions of making Crowley so dizzy with desire that it was like being among the stars again and Crowley had no intentions of letting him know that he made him feel as if he had a soul again — but that proved quite impossible when Aziraphale’s cheeks hollowed out around the pen. When his plump lips made that little round ‘O’ pressed tightly against the smooth metal. He knew that it would be warming with the heat of Aziraphale’s mouth.

Crowley made a sound like someone had punched him in the throat.

“Is everything all right, darling?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was fairly certain he made another almost tortured sound when Aziraphale called him ‘darling.’

“Everything’s fine. Perfectly peachy. Still got a little of that wine in my throat, is all.” His voice rose at least half an octave and ended on a bit of a squeak, which didn’t help Crowley's already-brittle confidence any.

Peachy? Since when did he say peachy? This wasn’t going well.

Aziraphale stared at him for another moment, something almost frustrated in his gaze, before going back to his forms with an intense, focused look in his eyes.

And he was still sucking on the end of his damned pen. [6]

Crowley was now certain he was about to discorporate. That would be fun to explain to Hell. ‘Ah, yes, I had no problems during the Spanish Inquisition, I just couldn’t handle a bit of oral fixation, so sorry about that.’

Beelzebub would laugh zir head off, before promptly chucking him into a vat of sulphur for a few decades for bothering zir. [7]

Aziraphale made a small show of checking his sleeves and cuffs and humming a sad noise through pursed lips at the nonexistent ink stains. [8]

Well, nothing else for it then. He gave a put-upon sigh, chanced a discreet look at the demon on his couch, and unbuttoned the cuffs. The sound of metal links through stiff fabric rang intensely loud somehow, and drew Crowley in, his head snapping up in a way that was distinctly inhuman, distinctly reptilian and altogether feral.

Crowley took in a deep, shuddering breath at the sight of those bared inner wrists, soft and angelic and something he desperately wished to mar with his kisses and his teeth. [9]

Aziraphale hid a pleased smile by rolling up his sleeves slowly, methodically, and with the air of an utter bastard who knew exactly what he was doing. His sleeves stretched slightly and pulled at the elbow as the creases of fabric settled around flesh and he hummed again, wriggling in his seat with pleasure.

Crowley made another noise that sounded suspiciously like ngk, or maybe hnng, and Aziraphale fought back a smug smile.

“Are you quite all right?” Aziraphale asked, smile radiating enough angelic innocence to make sinners in a two-mile radius stumble under a sudden stab of guilt at disappointing some vague, nebulous, but entirely innocent creature. “You look flushed.”

“It’s just hot in here.” Crowley waved it away.

His self-control was cracking, dangerously close to shattering completely. From the gleam in Aziraphale’s eye, he knew it too and intended to apply precisely as much pressure as necessary to make the spiderweb cracks splinter and give way. Crowley shuddered. He was never more attracted to Aziraphale than when he was being a bit of a bastard.

Aziraphale smiled his patented bastard grin, and Crowley was fairly certain his throat went dry.

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphle reached up and undid another button on his shirt, all while making full eye contact. “Why don’t you go open a window.”

It was more of an order than a request, and Crowley shivered with a hot stab of undeniable lust. His knees wobbled alarmingly, presently even weaker than his thread-worn willpower.

He stumbled over to the window, more snake than person, and shoved the pane open a crack. The air did absolutely nothing to help. The lust swirling through him grabbed at every inch of skin and raked hotcoal fingers of desire down his back, and, with his face in the sluggish London air, there was nothing his thirst could be slaked with, not even more wine.

It wasn’t really all that cold out. In fact, it was a decent day for England; the sun was, if not out out, per se, at least contemplating leaving the closet sometime soon, and Crowley was so flushed in the face and overheated that any sort of moving air should have felt cold to him. He was also unaware that, apparently, a demon’s ability to feel lust could be turned into a feedback loop if the object of their desire was also projecting their hunger.

(While still turned away from Aziraphale, he attempted to, ah, adjust himself in his trousers. Obviously a futile endeavour, the damn things were rather too tight even for a relaxed Effort, but it was the thought that counted.)

He’d had it. He was conquered. Damn all of Hell to… wherever, and let them take Heaven with them. Crowley was crumbling and the only thing that he wanted now was Aziraphale. His whole body was screaming at him to go to his angel. When he managed to make it back to the table (using a careless demonic miracle to ensure he made it there intact), he sank to his knees in front of Aziraphale, missing the seats entirely; a blaspheming mockery of piety, a worshipper at the feet of the only thing Crowley had ever believed in. Perhaps the Almighty had once commanded thou shalt have no other gods before me, but Aziraphale was better than a god. He was an angel. He was Crowley’s angel. And Crowley would put him before any other being on or off planet earth, God included. What were they gonna do, make him Fall again? [11]

Aziraphale.” His voice came out as little more than a whisper, a reverent prayer from sinning lips and he felt his face burning as though flames from the deepest pit of Hell were coming for his blasphemous tongue.

For the first time in what seemed like decades [12], Aziraphale fixed Crowley with his full attention. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, immobile and under a magnifying lens.

“Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale looked down at him from where he sat, then reached out with steady hands and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, tugging just hard enough to bend his head and expose his neck.

The sharp lick of pain made Crowley’s cock [13] throb in sympathy. Crowley pushed his head into Aziraphale’s hands, as if he were a touch-starved cat aching for affection. (And perhaps, just a bit of a masochist, about as much as Aziraphale was a bastard. He may or may not have done the maths in his head in the space of the last half-second.)

“Mff,” he mumbled in response. [14]

“Come now, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently as he tugged on Crowley’s tangles yet again, pulling his gaze upward so their eyes met like fire crackling between them. “Use your words for me.” [15]

The gleam in his eye seemed both amused and a touch sadistic.

Crowley groaned.

“Angel, you’re killing me.” He tried to pour his every meaning into those words.

(He knew it. 6000 years of making nice, and now, NOW Aziraphale was showing his true colours!

...not that Crowley minded much. Not as long as he was doing that thing to his hair, oh yes, there...)

Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“It’s only a little discorporation,” he said. “Barely death - la petite mort, truly.”

Crowley whimpered, turning his face to try and hide it. There was no chance on Earth, Heaven, or anywhere else the Creator deigned to imagine that Aziraphale hadn’t known exactly what he just said. The very notion that Aziraphale knew about things like sex and orgasms nearly made him implode like a dying star. And much like the stars, if Aziraphale kept using those kinds of innuendoes, he would probably crash into something in a fiery cataclysm. [16]

“Are you getting bashful, my dearest Crowley? I would never have thought it possible.” There was definitely a hint of teasing there in his voice, which did things to Crowley that were positively unmentionable. [17]

Aziraphale loosened his grip in Crowley’s hair, allowing him to turn his face fully into the security of Aziraphale’s palm. “And all this from watching me do my taxes?”

Crowley couldn’t help the keen that slipped from his lips, the hot stream of breath smothered in the gentle palm holding him in place. He wasn’t really held there, except that he was transfixed by everything happening in a way which felt all at once insufficient and overwhelming. The desperate what happens next kept him here, on the floor, kneeling in divine subservience at the feet of a holy servant who had surely been sent to wreck him.

A shiver ran down Crowley's spine, traced his hip, settled tantalisingly between his legs, before turning right back around for another lap.

“I am dreadfully busy with this paperwork. As much as I would like to help distract you, I just don’t think I can spare my attention,” Aziraphale continued, thoughtful and just wicked enough to make Crowley’s cock give another dull throb of approval.

His tone was that of someone who disapproved of rather a lot of these proceedings, but could potentially be convinced not to, and wasn’t that Crowley’s bailiwick, temptations?

Crowley saw his opportunity and jumped in. Kinky glorious bastard angel.

“It’s a terrible idea to do paperwork when you’re distracted, angel,” he said, widening his eyes, all faux-innocence and concern. “What if you made a mistake? You’d have the agents of Her Majesty’s Government breathing down your neck, coming into the bookshop, terrible stuff. Might lose an entire day to it. Or...more.” He stretched his neck, cracking the vertebrae loud enough to make Aziraphale visibly wince in sympathy. [18]

“Lots and lots of time spent around other people, not reading.”

Despite all his demonic wiles, Aziraphale didn’t seem to be too taken in by Crowley’s attempt at diversion. He leaned in, bringing his face closer to Crowley’s than Crowley could ever remember it being. A memory of their noses brushing during an exchange against a wall in Tadfield flitted through his mind. Crowley was too distracted to pay it much attention. His unnecessary breath caught in his throat until his chest ached, as if release would lift him right out of the moment.

“If you’re just going to make a nuisance of yourself, I can think of a number of ways to put you to better use.” Aziraphale’s voice was dangerously low, almost a purr, luring Crowley closer to his inevitable demise. “Why don’t you put your troublesome mouth to some use while I finish up this paperwork?” His thumb dragged along Crowley’s bottom lip, pulling it down and letting the cold air kiss his teeth. “We could make it a game, if you like.”

Crowley opened his mouth and drew Aziraphale’s thumb inside, looking him in the eyes as he licked the whorled pad of it. He tasted of salt and cocoa and bitter ink. [19]

Crowley liked games, and two could play at this one. To his delight, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut and his lips pressed together in a tight line.

“Is that all you’ve got?” asked Aziraphale, his voice strained for a moment before pulling himself together with a truly miraculous feat of willpower and laser focus.

Aziraphale’s eyes sharpened and he leaned back just a little, breathing in deeply through his nose before hooking this thumb around Crowley’s bottom teeth, pulling him forward, just a tad, just enough to draw an almost pained whine from deep in Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s cheeks flushed again at the sound, at how blatantly needy he was.

“Let’s make a wager.” Aziraphale cooed. “I’m going to carry on with my tax paperwork, and you’re going to put that mouth of yours to work keeping my cock [20warm. If you manage to distract me from finishing my paperwork, I’ll bend you over the desk and finish you instead.” Aziraphale’s voice made it clear just how obvious he thought it was that Crowley wouldn’t succeed, that he was just taunting him with the idea, tempting him with what Crowley so obviously, desperately needed. With a bit of a smile, he continued. “And if I win, you have to do your taxes.”

In the silence which greeted this declaration, an onlooker [21] could have heard a pin drop [22]. Aziraphale slipped his thumb out of Crowley’s mouth.

“I have to do what?” Crowley wasn’t sure if he was offended or just insulted. [23]

“Fellatio, oral sex, a blow job, Crowley. And here I thought you were so worldly.” Aziraphale seemed almost disappointed in him, something Crowley wanted to avoid at all costs and something which made that ugly little voice in the back of his head sneer audibly.

“Yeah, I got that. It was the ‘doing my taxes’ bit…” Crowley swallowed the rest of his objection; the gift horse was right there and begging him not to look it in the mouth. [24]

“OK, what makes you think I’d take that bet?” He had his pride (in a very loose definition of the word), even if he’d spent a fair few days and nights fantasizing about doing just that to Aziraphale— the blowjob, of course, not the taxes. [25]

Aziraphale smirked.

“My dear,” he said as he leaned back comfortably in his desk chair, thighs spread in an enticing temptation. “What makes you think you wouldn’t?”

And, well, fuck. Crowley didn’t have much of a response for that, now did he? Aziraphale had him between a rock and a hard place. [26]

He choked on that last modicum of pride as it pulled itself right out of him and fled through the open window, then he moaned audibly at the taunt. The breath he (fortunately) didn’t need came in ragged pants. He did the only thing he knew how to do in that moment and crawled under Aziraphale’s desk.

Like a prisoner watching the cell door slam shut, Crowley saw his chance for escape narrow and close as Aziraphale pulled his chair back into position. He would wager that the only other prisoner who had felt this mixture of anticipation, dread, and lust, however, was Aziraphale in the blessed Bastille. The sight that greeted Crowley suggested that his current jailer was suffering from a similar complex of improper wants. Aziraphale’s trousers were straining to contain him; [27]

the fact that Crowley hadn’t noticed until now had to be some kind of divine intervention.

(Or the fact that the desk had previously been in the way. Something like that though.)

The tightness of his own jeans added an uncomfortable element to the proceedings, and considering the stakes, he deemed it a personal failing. Refusing to be sidetracked by thoughts of his own aching need, Crowley held up his hands, hovering just above Aziraphale’s knees and dared himself to make contact. Regretting having left his wine on the table, Crowley closed his eyes and lowered his hands. Aziraphale’s legs trembled at the touch, his thighs visibly tensed even through his trousers.


Crowley let his hands inch up Aziraphale’s thighs, slow as a creeping snake and just as smooth. He damn well intended to torture him for all he was worth, at least for a given value of ‘torture’.

(Not, y'know, Deepest-Pits-of-Hell levels, but just enough to be payback for 6,000 years of being a bloody tease.)

The slightest gasp from above sent a thrill through him. How long had he waited to hear the angel make a noise like that and know that he was the one who'd caused it? The scent of Aziraphale was intoxicating down here, all musk and sweetness. Crowley allowed himself a taste of the air, serpent-like nature reasserting itself for a brief moment, and felt his head swim.

His hands reached their goal, the apex of Aziraphale’s thighs and a better source of warmth than a good heat lamp. His serpentine sensibilities urged him to bask but his more earthly needs demanded precedence. Bony fingers worked to free Aziraphale from the confines of his belt and trousers. The soft cotton of Aziraphale’s underwear tented upwards, the final barrier between Crowley and the object of so many of his most secret (and often terribly wet) dreams.

Just like when he was overwhelmed with other things, being overwhelmed with lust and desire [28] caused his eyes to turn golden-yellow entirely, like pools of molten gold; his gaze just as hot. His tongue was always too long to be quite human and split at the end, tapered in such a way that gave him full control over every centimeter of the slick muscle and he shuddered as he felt scales surface along his skin, live wires along his spine and pelvis, his fingers digging into plush thighs. [29]

His tongue flicked out again, pulling the heavenly scent of Aziraphale back to his soft palate and it was all Crowley could do to bite back another moan. Aziraphale's legs were rigid and stiff as he tried to keep still, despite the anticipation and utterly debauched look on Crowley's face even though they'd barely even started. Crowley’s eyes were glazed with unabashed want, lips wet with saliva from the way his mouth was watering. Then there was the claw-like curl of his hands, as if they were his only lifeline, the only thing grounding Crowley to this plane of reality. The perfect picture, a beautiful redhead on his knees and looking like Aziraphale had hung the stars and breathed life into him and declared them Good.

Crowley slowly, shakingly, pressed soft lips over Aziraphale's clothed erection and kissed through whisper-thin fabric, hot breath condensing on skin that pulsed in time with Aziraphale's steadily rising heartbeat. Aziraphale bit back a sharp inhale and instead wound his fingers into Crowley's hair again, not tight nor pressing, but it was an encouragement all the same as he picked up his pen once more in a needlessly tense grip, the blood left the joints in his fingers, assuredly retreating to his groin to join the rest of it from his head.

"I see that's not a no, Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, his voice deep and strong and commanding all at once, which made something quiver somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s gut and turned the heat up underneath the desk another few notches.

" 'Sss not," Crowley breathed drunkenly. His lips and forked tongue tips flicked against soft fabric before he suddenly seemed to remember what he'd been tasked to do. Without moving his hands from their place on Aziraphale's thighs he nuzzled up along the seam of the underwear to the hem with his nose, always keeping his cheek or lips or jaw pressed against the tantalizingly hard flesh as he moved, until he could get his teeth around the top of Aziraphale’s underwear and began pulling them down. Aziraphale lifted his hips slightly to assist with it and his breath sped up, but so did the light scratching of pen on paper and the occasional clacking sounds of calculator buttons and abacus beads. [30]

Crowley pulled down the last remaining barrier to Aziraphale's flesh, unearthing soft skin like one might reveal sacred treasures from dark catacombs, with careful handling and devout awe at being there to handle it at all in the first place.

(Entirely unrelated, Crowley insisted that relic had probably never been in the crypt to begin with, and that? That was just his cheap replica paperweight, don't mind that.)

He paused and breathed for a moment, overwhelmed at what felt like half his forbidden fantasies coming true all at once, before being overcome by an unrelenting hunger. His tongue wet his lips and his mouth watered as he pressed a reverent kiss to the tip of Aziraphale's cock before opening his mouth, stretching his lips, and swallowing him down whole until his nose was pressed into a stomach with just the right amount of give, like the sexiest of marshmallows.

Aziraphale made a soft noise from above the desk and Crowley's ears perked a bit, his tongue coiling around the firm column of velveteen flesh in his mouth and down his throat. He hummed the start of a canto from deep in his chest in an attempt to get the pen scratches to stutter or wrench another holy noise from the divine form above him. Aziraphale gave him nothing, no twitch of his hips, no tensing of his thighs, no commandment from on high, and his fingers didn't even tighten in his hair - which Crowley thought was entirely unfair. Instead the fingers gently swirled along the fiery locks, twisting gently through them, never pulling, not unlike being pet - though this felt like sacred reward, like exalted praise, like beatific sacrament.

Crowley choked, not because of anything so mundane as a gag reflex [31], but because suddenly he burned from the inside out and he hurriedly pulled off from Aziraphale only to stare at Lichtenberg streaks of golden grace suddenly brought into the physical plane from the ethereal. He felt them crawl across pelvis and thigh and along Aziraphale's sides and stomach even through the thick layers of clothing he wore, overlapping in places and filling dips and curves most humans might call stretch marks. He grinned, wide and wicked, at the evidence he'd flustered Aziraphale at all and (now that he knew it was going to burn a bit) reveled in the mild pain mixing with the pleasure of affecting his best-loved adversary.

With renewed enthusiasm Crowley licked up Aziraphale's cock, hissing at the feel and taste of the Hallowed on his tongue, and unhinged his jaw slightly to swallow him all again. Crowley bobbed his head along the length of him, starting at a moderate pace and quickly losing himself in the rhythm of it, hands still firmly pressed into thighs and reveling in the faint tingle of holy burn through thick tweed trousers and kneading along pliable thighs, along the inside and tops and sides up to hips and buttocks, following the alluring lines of incandescent grace. Each time his lips pulled across the head of Aziraphale's cock he twisted his tongue as it wrapped around the flushed golden glans, Celestial ichor sparkling in his mouth. And as cheeks hollowed to suck him back down, the tight grip of coiled, dexterous muscle pressing down along thick length made him shiver. [32]

Crowley couldn't keep his mouth from watering or the occasional whimper of pleasure escaping his lips and very quickly— or maybe it hadn't been quickly; seconds and minutes and hours had little to do with how he lost himself in the haze of single minded focus on worshiping at the shrine of Aziraphale, kneeling before him and using his mouth like a prayer of the faithful, sinking into the ecstasy of want and being engulfed by the feeling of being where he belonged— Aziraphale began showing more obvious signs of excitement. The soft, half bitten-off gasps and low groans, so low that if Crowley couldn't hear a wider range than the average human he'd have missed them entirely, fueled him and encouraged him better in his pursuit of holy completion. The hand in his hair finally, finally he nearly cried, gripped him tight and, for a brief moment, he thought he'd be pulled off or that Aziraphale would push him down until his cock rubbed the back of his throat raw.

But Aziraphale did nothing other than rock his hips to the side before forcing himself to settle again, the thick thighs underneath Crowley's fingertips tensed, and he quickly laved his tongue and worked his lips along the whole of Aziraphale's length in the faint hope it might incite more of the same, inwardly reciting earnest prayer at this altar, beseeching his most beloved divinity for his rapture and blessed euphoria. [33]

A sharp clack resounded through the shop and the pen broke atop the desk as it was laid down forcefully. The fingers entwined in Crowley's hair pulled him firmly off of and away from Aziraphale's lap.

"My dear boy," said the voice from on high that Crowley was angled up to hear, though he couldn't see Aziraphale's face from underneath the desk, sounded seeded with ruin and shattered and wrecked, "You seem to have lost."

Well, fuck me, Crowley thought, and not in the way he'd hoped for. He was absolutely dreadful with money. [34]

He could still taste Aziraphale on his tongue, felt the ache in his jaw, and when he spoke, he could hear how utterly destroyed his own voice sounded, killing any hope of sounding casual.

“Maybe from where you’re sitting.”

The scrape of the chair was harsh against the floor as Azirapahle pushed it back, and Crowley let his hands fall from his thighs, already missing the warmth. He felt more exposed now, crouching under the desk, but Aziraphale’s face was just as vulnerable, deeply flushed, lips swollen from where he’d clearly been biting them.

“Well, you aren’t going to get anything done down there, are you?”

“I can’t believe you’re going to make me fill out paperwork at a time like this. You know these forms are designed to be difficult as possible, right? [35]

The sass made it easier, somehow, to deflect, made it easier to find the strength to stand in what little space there was between the desk and Aziraphale and his chair. He couldn’t help flicking his eyes back down though, wanting so much to finish what he had started.

“Your work, then?” Aziraphale asked with an arched brow.

Crowley huffed. Tax forms had actually not been one of his Deeds and he was bitter about it to this day.

“I’ll be here to lend a hand... either way,” Aziraphale said with a sincere look that didn’t at all match the fact that his cock was still out and shiny with Crowley’s saliva.

Crowley swallowed.

“Well that’s alright then,” and it was only a little bit cheeky. “If you’re going to help.

“Of course I’ll help you,” Aziraphale smiled sharply, the air trembling between them and tingles shooting down Crowley’s spine from the base of his skull all the way to his tailbone and finally dispersing through his thighs at the vaguely ominous tone, “What do you take me for? I am an angel, after all.”

And without any further ado, Aziraphale gripped firmly at Crowley’s fully clothed hips with just enough Angelic Strength to remind him of the truth of that statement, twisting him around, and guided him to sit in his lap.

Crowley’s head was still spinning, his stomach was up in his chest [36] and he could feel his heartbeat in his cock at the feeling of freefall for a half-second and being caught snug against the chest and atop the plush lap of Aziraphale. And also the vague thought of, what if your dick was in me right now. I want to feel you against me, all of you. Why aren’t we naked? It was entirely unhelpful for his concentration and the hazy rumination of one more intensely desired sensation on top of everything else only compounded the aphrodisia of the ambient lust in the room as it filtered through him. To be entirely fair, he was pretty sure most of it was being generated by him. [37]

A miraculously intact pen was gently placed in Crowley’s hand and it grounded him into reality for all of a second before a weighty forearm was placed over his lap, feeling all too much like the safety bar of a fairground ride. It was a heated pressure over his prick that his hips bucked up to meet and he moaned breathily at the sweet friction provided. He was quickly pulled even further back against Aziraphale by the arm over his hips so that he wouldn’t be able to pull that move again, though this did have the most interesting side effect of making him rigorously aware of the Holy Hard-on pressed against the cleft of his ass.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale had the nerve to sound like none of this bothered him anymore, and only a little bit like his throat was dry.

“Y-yeah?” Crowley said, sounding very much like he was bothered and a lot like his throat had been fucked. Not technically true, but true enough for it not to taste like a lie. He could still feel the residual burn of the golden grace there.

“You’re meant to be doing your taxes.”

“Oh. Right.” Crowley curled his fingers around the pen gingerly and set about filling in the sheet, but was thoroughly distracted by the gentle whispers of lips across the back of his neck shooting thrills down his spine and raising goosebumps across his skin as he shivered.

(Blessed Hell, Aziraphale was barely even fondling him and his concentration was already in pieces. How had the man— well, man-shaped entity managed to even hold a pen steady with a serpent's incredibly agile tongue curled around his most intimate bits!?)

“Now dear, that isn't how you're spelling your name these days, is it?” Aziraphale murmured, a fine shroud of well-meaning covering an instance of blatant teasing.

Antheny made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and gave a somewhat pathetic snap to correct it to Anthony J. Crowley.

Aziraphale snapped the error back with an arm still wrapped around his waist, and the sharp sound sent a jolt through his cock. Crowley grit his teeth against the brilliant sensation as he rocked his hips so close to Aziraphale’s fist that he could almost feel his heat.

“That won’t do, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear, low and sweet and melodic, before pressing a small white bottle into his hand. Crowley nearly keened at the faint brush of fingertips, but it was gone too soon. “I never said you could miracle your mistakes away. That would be cheating. I can forgive you most things, but I can't condone that, I'm afraid.”

Without any warning, Aziraphale brought his hand down to rest gently over the bulge in Crowley’s jeans. Crowley yelped and nearly dropped the bottle of correction fluid Aziraphale had just handed him; a small wet spot had already bloomed on the denim.

With shaking hands, Crowley unscrewed the cap.

“How long have you been planning this?” he tried to ask as he brought the dripping wand down to the smudge of ink on the paper, but his brain must have decided to go on strike [38] because all that came out was a garbled string of sounds.

Aziraphale seemed to understand anyway as he traced Crowley’s zipper absently the way he usually fiddled with his own waistcoat buttons.

“Well, taxes are due every year, and I always plan to finish them early.”

For Go- Sat- Fuck’s sake, Crowley wished Aziraphale would finish him early. Trapped between Aziraphale’s hard cock and firm forearm, Crowley’s whole brain felt like it was buzzing. He barely managed to blot out his spelling mistake before Aziraphale popped the button on his trousers, hand hovering over the parted fabric. Crowley sucked in a breath and waited.

“Your name, darling,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear and nibbled at the lobe.

Crowley squeaked. The only name he knew at this point was Aziraphale, Aziraphale, angel, my love, but he was fairly certain that wasn’t his. [39]

“Angel,” he whined and squirmed, grinding his ass into Aziraphale’s cock, searching for friction. Aziraphale gasped - a wet, shocked sound, as if he hadn’t anticipated Crowley’s boldness - and let his hand fall onto Crowley’s dick.

Crowley’s whole body jerked at the sensation, and correction fluid spilled over his fingers, sticky and wet and not at all what he wanted to be feeling in his hand.

Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly, as if he had a leg to stand on when he was the one presently occupied with invading someone else's trousers.

“Dear, oh dear, what a dreadful mess you’ve made. And I don't think that's the birthday you meant to use.”

"We don't even have birthdays!" [40]

It was so far from the point it was probably in a low earth orbit by now, but it still needed to be said.

"Well the tax office thinks we do and we don't want to disappoint them now, do we?" Crowley felt Aziraphale smirk against the back of his neck. "You wouldn't want to be a disappointment, would you Crowley?"

"Ngk." Well that was just playing dirty, and while normally he'd be having a good chuckle over his angel's mean streak this was excessive and uncalled for and possibly one of the best things to have ever happened to him, thank you Whoever Is Listening, whatever I did to deserve this, please let me know so I can do it again every day for the rest of eternity.

Crowley reached for the little white bottle once more, blotting out a date that would make him 150 years, 4 months and 10 days old [41]. His fingers trembled, faced with the impossible task of fine motor function whilst Aziraphale stripped away both layers of clothing and exposed Crowley's cock. With his eyes squeezed tightly closed, Crowley whined and strained his hips back into Aziraphale's bare lap.

“You seem very distracted. Is this distracting? Hmm?” Aziraphale's rhetorical questions burned his earlobe with heated breath and weighted meaning.

He hated this game, hated how turned on it had him, hated how well Aziraphale seemed to be coping while Crowley came undone at the seams like a second-hand jumper from Oxfam, hated how he loved every second of it. Oh, this was torture from start to finish and patently unfair in the middle bits. (Not to mention how unfair it felt on his middle bits too.)

Snatching up the pen, Crowley willed his hand to cooperate and wrote the date of birth that would have been printed on his driving licence had he bothered to get one.

"You don't seem like much of a Gemini to me, dear." Aziraphale commented as he wrapped his hand around Crowley's urgent prick. "Virgo, perhaps?"

"Oi!" Crowley panted. "I— hnnngh— experienced. Very. Had all the sex - oh!"

Aziraphale raised a dubious eyebrow in his periphery.

Crowley growled, and snatched up the correction fluid again.

“Ah! We can't send it in this state, I think you'll have to start it all over again, dear me.” Aziraphale chided, his hand dragging up and down Crowley's shaft in slow, leisurely strokes. “I didn't think you'd find taxes so taxing my dear.”

"This's mean." He whined pitifully. "'S cruel and unusual punishment."

Aziraphale responded to this entirely reasonable accusation by stopping doing anything at all, instead taking the time to hum thoughtfully. His blessed hand even dropped from Crowley's cock to rest on his own thigh.

"Do you want me to stop?" His tone of voice made it desperately clear that Crowley could stop this at any time if he just said the word.

"Of course not!" That was, in fact, the exact opposite of what he wanted him to do.

Crowley shifted, all too aware of his position in Aziraphale's lap and exactly what it was that pressed into the small of his back.

"Well, let's remove some of these distractions then. See if we can't help you along." The seductive purr was back in his voice, setting off fireworks (and no small amount of suspicion) in Crowley's poor struggling brain.

Aziraphale released his hold on Crowley's waist and eased him up just enough to be able to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and slide them down. The parts of Crowley's mind that would have reacted to this development had long since punched their cards and left the building for the local happy hour; if he had any say in the matter at all, this was a dream that he had no intention of ever waking up from. In the spirit of embracing the moment as much as he wanted Aziraphale to embrace him (and then some), he kicked off his shoes and wriggled the rest of the way out of his jeans.

Aziraphale's hands ran back up Crowley's thighs and slipped up under the hem of his shirt. An involuntary whimper fell from Crowley's lips, forced from him by the sensation of holy hands spread open on his skin. Crowley gave no resistance as Aziraphale stripped him naked. It was good and right; clothes seemed like the stupidest idea in the world right now. [42]

Then Aziraphale kissed him - just once - on the taut, smooth surface of Crowley’s left buttock.

Crowley’s legs nearly gave way. Gentle hands brought him back down to sit in Aziraphale's lap. The sinful connection of being skin-to-skin was overwhelming.

"Let's see if you can do any better now, hmm?" Aziraphale produced a blank form from thin air [43] and placed it on the desk.

Suddenly, hips, those strange, pendulum-like things Crowley thought were only good for swishing back and forth while walking, made a whole lot more sense. He could definitely see how useful they were when there was a sadistic bastard of an angel grinding his prick against your arse while you were attempting to fill out your taxes. Crowley rocked back against Aziraphale's hardness, delighted to feel it settle snugly between his cheeks.

An answering gasp from Aziraphale, barely stifled, filled Crowley with the satisfaction of a job well done. He repeated the motion, experimentally.

A hand shot up into his hair, grasping tightly and pulling his head to one side. Crowley dropped the pen and lifted his hands from the desk, looking just like a kitten dangling from its mother's mouth. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley's exposed neck, breathing hard. Crowley held still, not wanting to break this moment, even as Aziraphale began to lay kisses along the top of his shoulder.

"You aren't concentrating, Crowley." He muttered, tracing his tongue up the contours of Crowley's throat.

Another unbidden whimper was all Crowley could manage in response, which he honestly felt was still an impressive achievement all things considered. Deserved a gold star, really, and maybe a nice orgasm to go with it.

Teeth grazed his earlobe once more, a soft whisper of a sensation but filled with promise. Surely no one could be expected to work under these conditions. Isn't this what unions were for?

Crowley reflected on all the choices in his incredibly long life which had led him here to this exact moment, and saw that It Was Good. It had been worth every misstep, every stolen glance, every bungled temptation; if it had led him here then it was worth every blessed second. [44]

Part of Crowley wanted to go back in time to Rome or Eden or maybe even further than that, just so he could inform himself that he'd find the purpose of his entire existence while naked and straddling an angel's lap. Even more specifically while also in possession of a well-used throat and a messy stack of poorly filled out paperwork for the 2019-20 fiscal year, just to see what expression happened on his own face while he did so.

(Chances were it would be a murderous one, as past-Crowley would dispose of future-Crowley to take his place.)

"I think, Crowley, that you're in need of some proper instruction." Aziraphale's voice snapped him out of his dazed, arousal-induced reverie. "Stand up."

Barely trusting his legs, which weren't exactly reliable even on a good day not involving the promise of the best shag of his life, Crowley did as he was told, leaning heavily on the desk before him. Aziraphale pushed the chair back and moved to one side. Crowley watched him gather up the mess of forms that Crowley had been gradually ruining and replace them with the neat, precise documents that bore Aziraphale's handwriting. He laid them out in order across the desk.

"Hands here." Aziraphale indicated an empty strip on the desk.

Crowley leaned over and complied, panting and curious. [45]

"Fingertips to elbows on the desk at all times. Do you understand?"

Crowley lowered his elbows to the desk and found that he had to bend at the waist to achieve the required stance. He nodded his understanding, vaguely aware of the correction-fluid still staining his fingers where they now pressed to the desk, turning his head to watch Aziraphale's next move.

"When I ask you a question, dearest, I expect a clear answer. You are to keep your forearms, from your fingertips to your elbows, on the desk at all times until I say otherwise. Do you understand." There was an ice cold undercurrent to Aziraphale's voice that made Crowley shiver.

"Yes angel, I understand." The unbridled want in his words was as naked as Crowley himself.

"I want you to read my forms so you can see how these things should be done." He stroked the length of Crowley's back as he spoke, causing goosebumps to prickle Crowley's skin.

He really did try to focus on the paperwork in front of him, honest; Crowley only wanted Aziraphale to be pleased with him after all.

And yet,all he could think about was how neat and mockingly perfect Aziraphale's handwriting was, even though Crowley had been doing his utmost to distract him, and how much the throbbing in his achingly hard prick was going to discorporate him if he didn't get relief soon.

Crowley really hoped that there wouldn't be a test. [46]

Aziraphale's hands adjusted his posture, moving his feet and straightening his back. A tap on the back of his knee told him not to lock them, and was followed up by Aziraphale dragging his fingernails up the back of Crowley's spread thighs.

"Fuck, angel." Crowley breathed, blinking unfocused eyes.

"Keep r-reading, Crowley."

He swallowed, holding just shy of begging, and tried to make out the words in front of him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Aziraphale had sounded rather more flustered than he had previously. Crowley rocked backwards, still keeping his hands and elbows pressed to the desk, not moving his feet but desperate to touch something, anything, any part of the angel he could. All he found was empty air, and the ghost of a distressed whine tried to claw its way out of his throat.

“I hardly think that you can be concentrating very hard if you have time to be wriggling about like a snake with restless-not-leg syndrome, my dear.” Soft hands came out of nowhere to save him, clamping firmly on each of Crowley’s hips and holding him in place.

He gave an experimental wiggle and found himself held completely still. Something about the helplessness of the situation thrilled him. That was swamped by a far more powerful thrill seconds later when he felt Aziraphale's lips on the sensitive skin inside the cleft of his arse. A kiss, as chaste a kiss can be when in such an intimate area, and Crowley was ready to fall to pieces.

All pretence of reading was abandoned, Crowley only focused on keeping his arms flat on the desk and the depraved attention that Aziraphale was giving him. The peppering of kisses around Crowley's hole morphed from prim pecks into open-mouthed and hungry kisses of possession and desire. [47]

Crowley's knees trembled as Aziraphale first dragged the flat of his tongue over Crowley's entrance. He was beyond grateful for the strength of those hands holding his hips in place, knowing he would crumple like a house of cards without them.

There was an angel with his face pressed against Crowley's arsehole. That alone would have been enough to send Crowley off the deep end, but the blissful pleasure that rippled through him with every stroke of that clever tongue was beyond anything Crowley had thought possible. Aziraphale held him steady as he lapped wetly at Crowley's hole, gently probing with the pointed tip, and sucking enthusiastically as Crowley howled.

Pre-come dripped from Crowley's untouched cock, leaving pearly splatters on the dark wood of the floor beneath him. He wanted. He needed. His desires were beyond words, just the formless shapes of an idea.

This was nearly too much, but simultaneously not enough. He needed more of everything, more of that clever tongue, more of Aziraphale’s hands on his scorched skin, more of Aziraphale. His mind was ablaze with his desperate need and in that moment Crowley forgot what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. He forgot the rules.

Aziraphale stopped suddenly, withdrawing his tongue from its ministrations, his hands now resting underneath Crowley’s own. Crowley had no recollection of actually placing his hands over Aziraphale’s, did not remember gripping tightly into that soft flesh where it lay over his narrow hips. That was where they were though. Crowley stilled, eyes snapping open again, wondering what would happen next.

Aziraphale slipped his hands out then let them drape casually over Crowley’s, the gentle pressure from those fingertips more telling than if he had grasped at them roughly. Crowley quickly slid his own hands out from under that gentle pressure and slammed them back down onto the desk, jarring his forearms against the edge of the unforgiving surface in his rush to correct his transgression.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale voiced, low and calm and... dangerous, oh, that should not be half as hot as it was. “What was the rule? You told me that you understood, so please repeat it for me now, just so that I am clear that you understood?”

Crowley felt dizzy. Christ on a tricycle.

“M’fingers and elbows, on the table, oh… angel…”

“So you did understand and you chose not to comply?” His voice was gentle but laced with disappointment.

“I didn’t… I don’t… please… oh angel…” Crowley had passed beyond any sense of reason now. All he knew was that he wanted to feel Aziraphale on him, in him, at any relation to him really, he wasn't going to be picky with prepositions now. He didn’t care what else happened. He had never felt such yearning to be touched in his life. [48]

“If you are going to find it too difficult to follow the rules then perhaps you will need something to help to remind you. You already lost our wager, it would be terrible for you to have to disappoint me again.”

Crowley quailled at that. No, no, he never wanted that. Disappoint his beloved angel, not if he could help it.

“Aziraphale…” was all he could manage. Please Aziraphale, I can be good for you. Please don’t stop, never stop.

A soft kiss brushed his ear and Crowley jumped, his nerves all firing in response to this unexpected gentleness. Aziraphale bent low over Crowley’s prostrated form, running his fingers lightly over the hypersensitive skin of Crowley’s outstretched arms as he went, raising further goosebumps in their wake. Crowley shuddered with pleasure at the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm body pressed against his own and lifted his head up to rub his hair into the angel’s face. Aziraphale inhaled the scent of his tangled locks before nuzzling into Crowley’s neck and nipping at the skin there. Crowley growled low in his throat. Finally.

Then the lips were gone. Aziraphale’s hands had come to a halt over Crowley’s and he held them delicately in his own, then, after allowing Crowley a moment to adjust his balance, lifted them from the desk and slowly brought them behind his back.

"Gently, easy." Aziraphale crooned as he lowered Crowley's upper body to the desk.

His cheek and shoulders were pressed into the wood, pushing Aziraphale's tax paperwork forward as he slipped. [49]

The sigh of fabric being slipped free preceded a flourish from Aziraphale. Crowley could just about see the tartan of Aziraphale's bowtie fluttering above him. His wrists were held in place with one, strong hand against the small of his back as the other made quick work of securing the bowtie around them. Absently, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had used his standard knot, putting a bow on what Crowley was freely offering him.

"There. That's not something that you should be able to forget about." Aziraphale sounded exceedingly pleased with himself, giving the neat bow a little pat.

Crowley whimpered, wordless.

Aziraphale's hands trailed down Crowley's back and over the soft rise of his buttocks. Crowley felt himself being petted, warm hands smoothing over his hungry skin. He relaxed into the sensation and allowed himself to be calmed by it.

The first smack took him completely off guard. Aziraphale brought his palm down hard on Crowley's backside a total of five times, in such quick succession that he barely had time to breathe.

"A reminder for you, dear heart. Maybe you'll think twice about disobeying again." There was something hidden in Aziraphale's tone, a hint of a smirk that suggested he might not mind doling out the occasional corrective punishment.

Crowley had no capacity for analysing this information, nor to register that he didn't mind receiving said corrective punishment in the slightest. All he could think about was the renewed urgency in his straining prick, his reaction to the unexpected spanking was as clear as day.

Then his mind was completely, perfectly blank. Aziraphale drew tight little circles around Crowley's hole with one slick finger. He had no leverage with which to push back, no way to urge that finger to breach him. No way, short of begging.

"Aziraphale… please." He swallowed at the lump in his throat. "Please. I'm yours."

"I know, my dear." There was something surprisingly soft and reverential in Aziraphale's voice, for just a moment. "That I should be so blessed..."

And with that, Aziraphale eased his finger inside Crowley.

Crowley made a keening noise impossible to describe with human words, as at least half of the noise was made up of a frequency too high pitched for their ears to have heard it in the first place, and the other half was on the Celestial plane and made up of all the relief-thank Her-holy fuck-pleasure-pleasure-pleasure his soul could scrounge up as any of his remaining brain cells still on shift after the strike all simultaneously abandoned ship through his ears.

All in all, it was a very Good finger and he was very pleased to feel it curl in him and the tip of it graze against his prostate in such a way that felt like not enough and like peeking at blinding pleasure through heavily frosted windows. Knowing somewhat generally—could he consider it intimate at this point? Fuck it, he was gonna [50]—knowing somewhat intimately the length of both Aziraphale's fingers and cock, he was sure that if only the man-shaped being of holy bastardry could be enticed into fucking him, Crowley would quite possibly be literally struck blind (by pleasure, of course. [51])

Crowley was, however, quite quickly reminded of his vastly limited abilities at the moment and any attempted wriggling simply got him a firm hand on his lower back pressing him further into the desk and what felt like one of Aziraphale's fingers tangled up in the knot at his wrists, effectively pining him there too. He'd normally say that put a damper on things, but with the sparks of pleasure dancing up and down his spine and kindly assisting the last dawdling brain cells in vacating his head, he couldn't quite bring himself to be entirely unhappy with it.

Aziraphale grinned in an uncommonly smirk-y way as he held Crowley still and worked him open further. Crowley was entirely relaxed beneath his ministrations and with a few mapping curls of his finger caressing along inner walls he was free to add another. Crowley groaned this time, strained and open mouthed and entirely debased. Aziraphale couldn't help the self satisfied noise that escaped him at the sight of his most ardent friend in obvious throes of pleasure and held down by his hand. [52]

Aziraphale fucked him open with his fingers, playing Crowley like a delicate instrument of needy moans and whines. Upon hitting a particularly sweet angle, Crowley even keened - at a pitch of d-minor, to be precise. Like a studious maestro, Aziraphale kept up a regular and evenly-paced rhythm of in-and-out, back-and-forth, up and down the scales until he had Crowley singing, rocking as best he could manage underneath his hand and along with movement of his fingers.

As soon as Crowley looked like he might be plateauing in his pleasure, Aziraphale scissored open his fingers for a definitive stretch and after a few moments of this added in a third, wanting to make sure the man-shaped serpent beneath him wouldn’t experience any true discomfort as things went along their merry way.

(Crowley wouldn't mind just a bit of a sting, truth be told, but Aziraphale would do this the way Aziraphale meant to, and indulge Crowley in other ways.)

Crowley gasped at the new sensations, drawing him from his hazy-minded and blissed out purgatory of pleasure, suddenly feeling firmly back in his body and aware of each and every sensation. The edge of the desk dug into his hips and his prick was pressed up against his stomach between the lovely texture of his smooth scales and the silky hardwood below, and each. Every thrust of the fingers in him sent fiery pulses through his groin and sent shocks of aching delectation up his sides and curling around his lungs, pulling ragged gasps and moans from his raw throat and across the tax papers half-filled out and covered liberally in spilled correction fluids and drool. If he’d been in his right mind he’d probably realize that his face was likely covered in corrections fluids and ink that had been rehydrated but he wasn’t, so he didn’t. [53]

“Azira-” a moan cut him off as the man-shaped bastard in question deliberately pressed on the bundle of nerves in him for that reaction exactly.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale hummed absently, as if he were a doting housewife from the 50’s in a sitcom, leaning delicately against the kitchen counter, rather than knuckle-deep in the arse of one Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, which was a far cry from the hungry look on his face, with his blue eyes turned dark and stormy, nearly black entirely, with how wide his pupils had dilated, and a golden glow beneath it all.

“Nk!” Crowley said in reply, unable to string together anything else resembling a word. Not that this particularly did, but close enough for government work. Unless you were Aziraphale and doing your taxes, of course, that was meant to be exacting.

And so he was.

“You’ll need to speak up, dear boy, it’s terribly rude to mumble.” His fingers twisted just so inside Crowley and scraped along sensitive flesh to end up rubbing at the same assortment of oversensitive nerves as before, drawing yet another choked response from Crowley where he was sprawled on the desk.

“Well, I suppose if you insist on being rude about it…” Aziraphale withdrew his fingers and for a few brief, painful seconds of realization Crowley nearly [54] cried.

And then he nearly cried again in relief when the fingers that had just left him returned to firmly smooth themselves along the curve of his ass and thighs with a few soft crooning noises coming from behind him on high.

“Shh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning up and over Crowley’s body, his weight pressing down on him, and he kissed gently between his shoulder blades, one for each constellation of his freckles painted across the heated expanse of skin and scale. The distressed trembling through Crowley’s body quieted into something much softer and his overworked nerves had some gentle respite.

“Do you need me to stop?” It took a few moments for Crowley to understand what was being asked, but as soon as he did, he whined and shook his head as best he could, though it only smushed his nose further into the desk beneath him, and gasped out a desperate sounding response.


Aziraphale hummed in response and dug his fingers into the flesh of Crowley’s thigh, scraping his short, patently well-manicured nails over skin, alighting it with streaks of fire-pleasure and causing Crowley’s hips to buck involuntarily against the desk. Aziraphale bit back a moan of his own as he’d been pressed up against Crowley fully and his own cock was cradled against his arse, the sudden movement of his hips sent a few of those firework-sparklers of pleasure through Aziraphale as well.

“Good boy.” He just about sung, softly in all his angelic-choir gentility, [55] into Crowley’s ear, teeth catching on the lobe and soothed with another soft kiss placed over the worried skin. Crowley couldn’t help the soul-deep moan that wrenched itself from his throat at the praise and he went almost worryingly still except for the broken breaths he sucked in, panting for more.

Aziraphale removed his weight from atop Crowley, who keened a high-pitched sound in response to the loss, and kneaded down the available flesh of flank and thigh before removing the hand too. He drew in a deep breath to steady himself and positioned his feet between Crowley’s, the outside of his shoes cold and smooth against Crowley’s ankles and the thick tweed of his trousers scraping softly along the inside and back of Crowley’s thighs and knees, over small, sensitive scales not unlike the kind found on the underside of a snake.

“Ready?” He asked chirpily and, without waiting for or expecting an answer, he guided himself to press against Crowley’s entrance, groaning softly at the velveteen feel of delicate skin slicked with copious fluids. Crowley moaned too, more from the anticipation of all his dreams and fantasies coming true all at once (they all boiled down to Aziraphale, so they weren’t too difficult to fulfill), than any new sensation.

“Pulease,” Crowely slurred, hips rocking against the wood of the desk, back and forth in a vain attempt to force Aziraphale to actually bloody enter him, but Aziraphale pulled back just enough with every motion Crowley made, so he never actually stopped touching him, but the pressure never increased enough to breach him, either.

Patience,” He intoned low, dangerous nearly, the hand still on Crowley’s back and curled around the bowtie at his wrists was suddenly imbued with Angelic Strength and he ceased allowing Crowley any movement at all, “is a virtue, Crowley.”

And, finally, Crowley sobbed to himself at the relief and holy burn of it, Aziraphale pushed forward slowly, filling Crowley inch by inch and giving him no quarter until their hips met with a lethargic and wet kiss.

Crowley did not remember Heaven. Never had, never would, and honestly didn't want to.

But in that moment, stuffed full, gently-yet-firmly held, and overwhelmingly loved, Crowley's eyes widened, and it was all Golden Light and Divinity. He didn't say he glimpsed God— now, wouldn't that be awkward— but Aziraphale was who Crowley worshipped [56] anyway, so that was much preferable.

Aziraphale moaned and laid his forehead between Crowley’s shoulder blades, giving them both a chance to adjust to the feeling of being as close as it was possible to be, as full of and deep inside each other as they had ever been.

“Crowley, you are incredible.” Aziraphale enthused.”You are so, so good for me.”

"M'demon. No' good." Crowley protested weakly, and was amazed he was even halfway coherent still. "You. You are."

Aziraphale continued a torrent of murmured praise into Crowley’s skin as he began to move, pulling himself almost completely out and then easing himself back in. Crowley’s ragged breaths the only indication of the effect the steady pace was having on him.

“You are my- my good angel,” Crowley moaned, voice catching on each sharpened syllable like sunlight glinting off the corner of a diamond’s surface. He looked over his shoulder, eyes glazed in bliss though he managed to pull off a smirk as he prayed, the reverence falling from lips as easily as moans, “Thou comest from heaven.” He gulped in hot air when Aziraphale’s hips bucked against Crowley's own upon recognizing the prayer, rough and forceful enough that his entire body scraped along the smooth wood and crumpling paper beneath him.

“Do not leave me, s-stay quite near me,” Crowley continued his fervent, heavily edited, prayer, delight and love shining in his gold eyes at Aziraphale’s measured breathing, too controlled to be unaffected, and hands tightening on his skin in ways that would leave him with delicious finger-print bruises. [57]

“Come to my help in the ah! the struggles of my life. Deliver my soul so that with thee it may praise, forever and hnngh ever...” He gasped out between the moans Aziraphale pulled from him with exacting precision in his too-slow, too-full, too-Good movements and the body above him shuddered in time with his breaths, for every exhale of blasphemy and every inhale of halcyon-gold love.

“A-amen.” Crowley whispered, shouting his pleasure in surprise as Aziraphale suddenly snapped his hips up and started in on a punishing pace, drawing nails down Crowley’s spine and raising burning welts from under gold-tipped fingers where his grace drew close to the surface. He felt subsumed by it, encased with it, everywhere Aziraphale touched scalded him and mixed perfectly with the pleasure, magnifying each sensation to new heights and like the core of him had been flayed open until he was laid bare before Aziraphale, an offering to a Merciful, Loving God. It felt both perfect and perfectly possible that he could reach in and pull each and every thread of Unholy out of him, untangle the damnation from his soul and cauterize the evil until it withered and grew no more in him. [58]

It hurt. It pulled great, heavy tears from his eyes, which weren’t even supposed to be able to do that in the first place, and it filled him to bursting with everything he'd always tried so hard to not let himself feel. It was everything he’d ever heard, ever dreamt, divine ecstasy might be, but even so some proud part of him was convinced that even Saint Teresa had nothing on this. [59]

Crowley’s back felt like he’d self-flagellated and the backs of his thighs, hips and lower back tingled like days-old burns in the sun with every press of holy-striped skin against his. His hips rocked against the desk and tears flowed freely from his eyes even as they shut in rapturous delirium, his prick shifting with the rest of his body with each thrust from Aziraphale as his keening grew higher in pitch and breathier with every passing moment.

And then, an instant of eternity. Of a graph forever approaching its limit, so close and yet unreachable, time dilating as stars and planets dance around black holes at impossible speeds, all building and building and never snapping, never falling, forever just on the cusp of

Crowley came with a sudden cry as an orgasm rocked through his core like a star going supernova, heat spilling through his veins in waves and emptied from him between burning skin and the wood and paper trapped under his body.

It was gentler than he expected, a soft roll of burning pleasure that numbed him to the world, and yet that gentleness the tenderness of Aziraphale’s palms pushing into his shoulders, the breathy IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou being whispered in his ear like a psalm as Aziraphale continued thrusting steadily into him, the golden and Good pit that was growing in his chest— that was what utterly wrecked him.

Crowley had Fallen from Heaven. He had brought Original Sin and evil unto the world. He had even stopped the End of Days. He was over 6,000 years old and was probably one of the only beings in existence (if not the only) to have experienced nearly every single kind of experience there was to have on Earth, in Heaven and in Hell.

And yet, he’d never experienced being loved like this before. [60]

Aziraphale moved within him like the holy dark and a secret chord rang through the celestial silence between them as Crowley came down from tipping over the peak with rhythm-less, stuttering hips and a sharp cry from lips and teeth pressed into Crowley’s shoulder, sure to form another bruise that he would treasure for as long as it would last - preferably forever. [61]

Crowley’s eyes blinked slowly like a cat’s might, and he groaned as Aziraphale spilled his essence inside him. He hissed lazily at the sudden coolness, overcome slowly with the chemicals flooding his corporeal form and urging him to sleep, as Aziraphale drew up off of him and delicately untied the bowtie from his wrists, rubbed the blood back into his fingers and massaged up his arms to his shoulders and helping Crowley bolster himself up onto his elbows. Aziraphale’s hips were still pressed up against the backs of Crowley’s and they were still joined for at least a little longer, so Crowely leaned back into the soft warmth of his angel behind him and basked in the feel of being loved and the firm hands petting along his skin to bring him floating gently down from sex-enduced endorphins.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chuckled, a low throaty thing, as he leaned forward to press his chest against Crowley’s back and whispered into his ear, “You’ve ruined the forms.”

A freezing gust of air chilled the back of Crowley’s neck as he looked down to find Aziraphale’s tax forms covered in his fluid; his own, coated in spilled corrective fluid and bleeding ink, looked much the same, and he turned to look at Aziraphale in something like fear, worried they’d have to start all over again. (Though, maybe, if this is what it lead to, he’d like to do taxes more often, please and thank you, though he could do without the numbers bit. [62])

Aziraphale laughed loudly, a sly smile worming its way into his eyes as he softly grabbed Crowley by the chin, breath light and airy against his lips. Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed as he waited patiently for a kiss, but instead, Aziraphale made his admission.

“Not to worry, my dear boy, I’ve already sent mine in, about… oh, must be three weeks ago now!”

“Hungk!?” Crowely started and nearly whipped around, but at this point he was far too tired already to do anything other than burrow his head in his hands on the desk, away from the mess, and grumble to himself, ready to fall into a sweet, blissful sleep as he felt Aziraphale depart from him, only his lover’s hands still, gently, adoringly, in contact with his body.

It seemed impossible that outside of the boundaries of the bookshop that life was proceeding as normal for the vast majority of the planet and beyond, as if the participants of the most extreme case of star-crossed lovers the world had ever known hadn't just reached the inevitable end of their marathon run by cumming their brains out while doing their taxes. [63]

“Come now, sweetheart. You can’t fall asleep here.” Aziraphale draped a soft blanket over Crowley’s shoulders and bent to scoop him up in his arms. “Let me take care of you.”

Safe against Aziraphale’s chest, hearing his heartbeat and knowing that it was for him, Crowley allowed himself to be carried to the back room of the bookshop.


Crowley jolted awake in the downy-light of dawn, a yellow glow from a nearby lamp lit the room dimly and he looked around, his mind hazy and dull from some of the best sleep he’d ever had in his life trickled from him like sand in an hourglass.

“Aziraphale?” he muttered to himself, about to get up from the sofa he was laid out on only to realize he was still entirely nude though he was wrapped up like a cozy snake burrito in an obscenely fluffy (and warm) tartan quilt that felt infused with Love right down to the down. [64]

“Yes, love?” Aziraphale poked his head out from around the corner leading into the kitchen in the back of his shop. A small one, but it only ever got used for tea and cocoa so that wasn’t much of an issue.

Love…?, Crowley mouthed to himself, pointing at his own chest in a slight daze before he was slingshot back into reality.

“Wait!” He shouted, standing in an awkward eruption of flailing limbs and entirely uncaring that the quilt fell to the floor, looking simultaneously confused and incensed, “You still haven’t even kissed me!” He leveled the accusation as well as a pointed finger dramatically at Aziraphale, who raised an eyebrow at him and hummed.

(His gaze also slid noticeably downwards, but that was neither here nor there.)

“Oh, haven’t I?” His smile seemed almost wicked, but he was an angel, so surely, surely it couldn’t be. [65]

“Wh-well,” Crowley stuttered, faltering immediately as it sunk in what he'd just blurted out loud while his face went red, “Not like that! I meant on the lips!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. “I suppose not. How remiss of me.”

And with that, he floated across the room with prim, small steps as if the blessed bastard hadn’t a care in the world, and—Crowley’s brain short circuited again when a soft, warm hand tugged him down, forcing him to bend to meet lips impossibly softer with his own.

“Oh.” Crowley said, wondering if it was possible for your heart to orgasm or if that was a strictly genitals only kind of thing, then immediately conceding that it was the former. “I don’t know if I liked it. Can we do it again?”

Aziraphale's fond, readied-to-be-indulgent smile implied that yes. Yes they could.

As often as they liked, really.


[1] He wondered frequently how Aziraphale’s skin would redden beneath his mouth as he sucked circles into the soft skin at the base of his smooth neck. Occasionally, his mind added on a question about what sounds Aziraphale might make in that situation. This moment was no exception.[return to text]

[2] He'd last done his taxes in 1932, when the drama around Al Capone had instilled him with just a hint of paranoia. If they got him, they could get anyone, Crowley figured. (Before long, the mind-numbing tedium had outweighed his paranoia once again, though, and he’d lapsed back into the comfort of tax evasion.)[return to text]

[3] Whatever “it” was.[return to text]

[4] Traffic experts have calculated that you could lob off up to ten percent of accident statistics if only Crowley left the wheel to the Bentley itself more often...[return to text]

[5] Crowley allotted a good chunk of his thinking power at the time (already limited due to exposure to certain beaming angels) to contemplating dwarf stars. Yes, alright, he was maybe a tiny bit of an astronomy nerd, sue him.[return to text]

[6] Lucky pen. Crowley would kill to be that pen. He would do any number of horrible things to even approach its state of pen-ness (pun entirely unintended but perhaps quite Freudian) for a single, brief, immaterial second.[return to text]

[7] Crowley had already acquired some questionable fame in the Seven Circles after the 1474 codpiece incident. And NO, we shall not elaborate, the poor bastard has heard enough about it at every single Hell-equivalent to company bowling night. Not that company bowling nights aren’t already a Hell-equivalent.[return to text]

[8] The ink in Aziraphale's direct reach was simultaneously intimidated by the demon Crowley for daring be an object that might stain anything so pure and pristine as his angel and also thought too highly of Aziraphale to leave the angel with ink stains of any kind, let alone on fingertips or cuffs! So any ink stains mentioned here were decidedly imaginary and solely for the purposes of this… exercise.[return to text]

[9] Crowley could, and had, spent hours dreaming and fantasizing about the things he’d like to do to those scant few inches of supple flesh, mapping the meandering indigo veins with his tongue, memorizing the precise coordinates of every freckle, tracing the indentations where forearm became wrist. Crowley could quite possibly spend days worshipping Aziraphale’s wrists and nothing more, a fact which became a little bit embarrassing if he examined it too closely (which is why he never did, unless said examination involved a little bit of self-stimulation). [return to text]

[10] The day Aziraphale had said "hmpf" and caused the couple so rudely occupying their usual desk to be booted out of the Ritz entirely, Crowley had rather embarrassed himself in the middle of the restaurant. At least that had solved his usual hard-on-during-dinner problem.
...for all of five minutes.[return to text]

[11] Well. Again again. Crowley absolutely did count the moment he had Fallen for Aziraphale, because he just knew She had had Her hand in that. A beautiful angel just sitting around on a random wall in a great big empty desert, and he'd given away his sword, too!
Coincidence!? Crowley thought NOT.[return to text]

[12] A respectable length of time even for two immortal beings. Long enough for Crowley to feel it, certainly.[return to text]

[13] Crowley tended to be a bit flippant about what sort of Effort he liked to manifest on any given day, at least as much as he was with his gender expression, but a penis was often his default. Particularly given the ideas he’d had over the centuries about the many things Aziraphale could do to his cock. Or with his cock. Or in the general vicinity of his cock.
(Hell, the same hemisphere would do at this point. Crowley was feeling his dry spell quite keenly.)[return to text]

[14] Crowley prided himself on his flawless eloquence even in the most stressful situations, and anyone who might dispute that claim could fffffllnnnngah right off.[return to text]

[15] In most circumstances, Aziraphale would have added “that is what mouths are for” or something to that effect because that’s the type of bastard he was. However, in this scenario, he was quite hopeful that Crowley’s mouth would primarily be used for other purposes.[return to text]

[16] The Hubble Telescope, or at least the people who used it, would have a field day with that one. [return to text]

[17] By which Crowley meant he wouldn’t dare mention them for fear of embarrassing himself with his over-eager responses. Although, if Aziraphale kept it up, it’d soon become quite obvious indeed.[return to text]

[18] Or perhaps he was simply wincing at the picture Crowley was painting, the very notion of people coming into his bookshop and mucking about in all his paperwork (which was admittedly already a mess, but it was the principle of the thing), Heaven forbid!.[return to text]

[19] He tasted like Heaven.
(Well. Metaphorically.
Literally, Heaven tasted more like stale coffee, generic citrus cleaner, empty obedience, and... salt as well, actually, due to all the bitter tears spilt over gruelling paperwork.)[return to text]

[20] Crowley thanked whatever Greater Power smiled on him -- which, not a wide demographic -- for Aziraphale's usage of a word that was not terribly outdated and mildly nauseating, such as "meat skewer", or "flapdoodle", or any number of other terrible euphemisms, with "cockalorum" currently in the lead of terribleness.
(It was, perhaps, quite bold of Crowley to assume that any however-horrid purple prose would soften him even the tiniest bit if it came from Aziraphale's mouth, but if now was not the time to be a hint bold, then when!?)[return to text]

[21] Such as, hypothetically speaking, an entirely hypothetical omniscient being. Hypothetically.[return to text]

[22] Or, possibly, heard an angel doing the gavotte on a pin, or a demon dancing very badly on one.
(Or, maybe, perhaps, if such a thing were thinkable at all, an angel and a demon slow-dancing on said pin to the dulcet sounds of Queen, swaying from side to side with their hands just an inch or two south of proper while whispering tender filth into each other's ears.)[return to text]

[23] It didn’t help that the nasty little voice in the back of his head chimed in to slyly suggest that this was all just a ploy to get Crowley to do ‘good things’ and that Aziraphale didn’t actually want him at all. Crowley always tried hard not to listen to that voice overmuch, but sometimes it was more insistent than others.[return to text]

[24] It was Crowley’s mouth that was the focus here, after all, and particularly what was going to be entering it.[return to text]

[25] (Even if watching Aziraphale sucking on that pen did things to him. If he was leaving this room with a tax accountant kink, he was never letting Aziraphale hear the end of it!)[return to text]

[26] Said hard place being very hard indeed.[return to text]

[27] It was a common joke among the denizens of Hell that angels were, as a rule, very poorly endowed.
Crowley had always suspected this to be incorrect, and some little corner of his mind not focused on getting his mouth in unspeakable places rather wanted to take a photo as proof, because this was… well… yowza.
(...actually, the rest of his brain was also taking to that idea, though the photo wouldn't be used as proof.)[return to text]

[28] And love, but he was decidedly not thinking about that right now, though Aziraphale could feel it emanate from him, which in turn only added to Aziraphale’s own rocketing lust. [return to text]

[29] The last time Crowley had lost control over his corporation to this degree was the day he had found out that rubbing one out was an experience exponentially improved by thinking of a certain angel while doing it.
One of the best days of his life, though Crowley had the feeling this one would overtake it with a landslide victory.[return to text]

[30] If Aziraphale could still do maths in this state, then this challenge was going to be harder - heh! - than Crowley had anticipated….[return to text]

[31] A gag reflex was one of those things Crowley observed with detached interest and perhaps a hint of curiosity, but generally only had the vaguest of concepts of.
(Not unlike legs. 6000 years, and he still had no idea what to do with the damn things that wasn't fantasizing about wrapping them around Aziraphale's hips.)[return to text]

[32] Now, with such obviously superior technique, the Esteemed Reader might wonder if Crowley had honed his skills on persons not-Aziraphale. And, in fact, he had gotten a lot of practice in; though the only factors involved in that had been Crowley, Crowley's extremely flexible spine, a mental image of Aziraphale, and no other personage whatsoever.[return to text]

[33] An angel far up above dropped a new prayer-memo with an unholy screech, and ran to wash its billions of all-seeing eyes out with soap.[return to text]

[34] His post-Capone taxes had consisted mostly of hand-waving and copying the expenses of the dentist down the street, as well as a demonic miracle or two.[return to text]

[35] Dagon cried herself to sleep some nights because nothing she ever had or would come up with even came close to the horror that was earthly tax forms.[return to text]

[36] Though that wasn't even so unusual. Whoever made these corporations had taken rather fewer anatomy classes than may have been prudent, and they tended to rearrange themselves when you weren't paying attention - which Crowley hadn't been since the window, truth be told.[return to text]

[37] Once again, to be fair, most of the ambient desire in the room was being propagated by Aziraphale and Crowley was amplifying it with his own in a vicious feedback loop he’d had no chance in Heaven of getting out of (or wanting to).[return to text]

[38] Crowley was willing to listen to the neuron workers' demands, but since they consisted primarily of "get Aziraphale to bend you over and take what's always been his", and he had very little say in that matter, the strike persisted.[return to text]

[39] Not yet, that is. Crowley was entirely unopposed to taking Aziraphale's name when if they married.[return to text]

[40] Which wasn't to say Crowley didn't rather want to have a birthday. Or have Aziraphale have one, just as an excuse to come over once a year and spoil him with cake and presents.[return to text]

[41] Crowley was currently getting as much mileage out of his 6/6/69 birthday as he could. He had merely forgotten the century.[return to text]

[42] The true stupidest idea in the world during that precise moment occurred to the mayor of a little town in Oxfordshire, but we maintain he had unfair advantage simply by being a politician, whose stupid ideas the layman could only rarely match.[return to text]

[43] He actually produced it from the desk of Reginald Borington Sr., the latest in a long line of rather boring tax accountants, who, in all his long, boring years of service, had never, ever misplaced a form; and would subsequently go through a minor mental breakdown, a mid-life crisis, and finally become a world-famous rockstar.
(He'd done the man a favour, Aziraphale would later insist, and pretend he hadn't simply miracle-snatched whichever form was closest.)[return to text]

[44] Except that one second in 472 BC. That second knows what it's done.[return to text]

[45] Curiosity killed the cat, but snakes were fine.
...riiiiight…?[return to text]

[46] There would be, and Crowley would only scrape by with a D- because he was shagging the prof.[return to text]

[47] The attentive reader may notice that, among the many and varied areas of Crowley's body Aziraphale had lavished kisses upon, lips were conspicuously absent still. This was, of course, because two opposing moods clashed in Aziraphale's heart: his gentlemanly demeanour, and his sheer, unrelenting thirst.
In this instance, the thirst had won out.[return to text]

[48] Well. Once, maybe. Though that had been more of a general yearning for Aziraphale's presence, for him to only be there, to gently wrap his arms around Crowley in the middle of a burning bookshop and kiss his tears away.[return to text]

[49] He absently noted that Aziraphale had made a minor calculating error in his yearly travel expenses. The things you noticed when your mind was entirely blank from arousal…[return to text]

[50] If you could not say you knew someone intimately when you'd had their prick in your mouth and were about to be known by them biblically, then when could you say it!?[return to text]

[51] Though that pen was quite dangerously perched on the edge of the calculator, and might well take someone's eye out if they weren't careful. Crowley nudged it away with one elbow while he still had the mental wherewithal to do so.[return to text]

[52] Aziraphale made a note to himself so that he could remind Crowley of just who would actually win in a wrestling match between them next time he saw that statute. He was not going to lose, and stop bringing up Jacob, he'd been caught off guard, wrestling hadn't been in the briefing at all, he'd thank you to remember.[return to text]

[53] There would be a quite mortifying moment when Aziraphale would point out, stifling laughter behind his hand, that Crowley had just a little spot right there, And Crowley would first see his splattered mess of a face in the mirror; however, for now, all was well, and Crowley lost in blissful ignorance.[return to text]

[54] A Disclaimer: the word "nearly" does not accurately gauge Crowley's closeness to tears, and is only included for the sake of his last crumbs of pride. It has absolutely no relation to the concept of nearness or not-quite-ness, and should not be taken as such.
(In other words, Crowley bawled like a baby.)[return to text]

[55] Aziraphale had sung meta-dimensional quasi-soprano in the Angelic Choir way back when, and had a voice like an angel.
However, since everyone in the ensemble did, seeing as, well, they were angels, that wasn't saying much.[return to text]

[56] Crowley would like to make it clear to the Esteemed Readers that he did not have a little shrine to Aziraphale in his bedroom, and that this non-existent shrine contained neither a hand-drawn Da Vinci sketch of said angel, nor a scrap of his tartan and every letter Crowley had ever received from him. That was merely a nasty, nasty rumour with no bearing upon reality whatsoever.
(It was, in actuality, a drawer with a lock on it. Not a shrine. Obviously.)[return to text]

[57] Demons didn't bruise, usually. Crowley, however, desperately wanted to, so they bloomed colourfully under Aziraphale's grip like so many flowers.[return to text]

[58] Evil hadn't actually grown in Crowley since sometime between the Flood and the Coming of Christ, and any residual Evil was more psychosomatic than anything else; and yet, the purifying effect of Aziraphale's love scraped even the last lingering stains from his Immortal Essence.[return to text]

[59] Most of those Divine Ecstasy experiences were rubbish anyway. Mortals couldn't usually receive this kind of thing, so 90% of claims of the same were due to a harsh fever or a bowl of monastery gruel gone bad, and the remaining 10% were demonwork.
(Except for aforementioned Teresa. Always exceptions to the rule, weren't there.)[return to text]

[60] Maybe if he had, he would still be sitting on a cloud somewhere. But said cloud definitely would’ve been a less interesting place than the world he was sharing with Aziraphale — so, despite an Armageddon’t and six thousand years of painful pining, it had all worked out rather well in the end.[return to text]

[61] We urge the Esteemed Reader to start breathing evenly again at this point, have a glass of water, maybe loosen their collar and fan themselves with a nearby piece of paper.
(This message has been brought to you by the Author's Association for Appropriate Reader Aftercare. Fic responsibly!)[return to text]

[62] The burgeoning accountancy kink in his heart protested, but Crowley firmly squashed it down again.[return to text]

[63] And, in fact, it didn't. Not quite. All over the globe, the sun shone just a little brighter, hearts were just a little lighter, and any and all lovers just a hint more frisky in their lovemaking than before, especially if they happened to work as tax accountants.[return to text]

[64] He didn’t know, because of course he couldn’t have, even with vague suspicions of it, but Aziraphale saved all his down feathers from molting for over 6,000 years and they’ve all eventually made their way into the padding of the quilt wrapped around Crowley. If any human had stumbled upon it, they’d think it was amazingly comforting. They might have noticed that it smelled exactly like they imagined the nebulous Home to smell like, whether they had one or not. But to Crowley it smelt like divinely baked chocolate chip cookies, lignin, and ink.[return to text]

[65] Angels could, actually, be quite wicked; so much so, that besides "Employee of the Millenium", Heaven also awarded a "#1 Naughty Angel" mug to select celestials who excelled in wicked (yet still Righteous, naturally) endeavours.[return to text]